


Debts

by stateofintegrity



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:53:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23951113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity
Summary: Klinger's outrageous costume wins him some unwanted attention and he suffers for it. Fortunately, Winchester is around to pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

“Klinger!? My god, man! What happened?!”

If Klinger had not been such a curious individual, Charles would have ascribed his prone condition not to whatever his latest antics might be, but to injury. As it was, it took him a moment to get over his startlement and really take in the man over whom he had so nearly fallen. He looked hurriedly around. “Are we under attack?” 

There was little light, but when Klinger tried to speak, the muddy water was bubbled by his breath. Charles reeled back a pace at the implications; no one with a nose that size would lay so close to a puddle as to tempt drowning by inhalation; Klinger was _down_. 

Kneeling, Charles reached beneath him and turned him as gently as he could. It wasn’t gently enough to prevent a low cry that filled the doctor with pity. At first glance he tallied a welt on the corporal’s head, a cut under his eye, and bruises all about his face. 

“I have to get you to the OR.”

“No. Please, Major. My tent. Private.” The words were punctuated, practically walled off from one another, by pained breaths that seemed to bring him little air. 

“Max, you are delirious.” 

His eyes were dark and desperate, but also focused. “No I’m not. Major, please. Don’t want anyone to know about this.” 

Charles’ eyes left his wounded face to take in the rest of the scene. The soft ground had been trampled and torn. He could make out the fresh prints of army boots and deep gouges left by Klinger’s high heels. The corporal’s rifle was nearby and something wet gleamed on the stock. His dress was torn almost to the waist. 

_Max_... “Alright,” he said at last, against his better judgment. “Can you put your arms around my neck?” 

He did and Charles lifted him with surprising ease. “When did they last feed you, man? You don’t weigh anything at all.” Indeed, he felt very much the hero bearing off the fallen damsel... if damsels could have stubble. Walking with exquisite care, he took Klinger to his tent. 

There, he transferred Klinger’s broken form to the military-issue cot. Klinger moaned and Charles surprised himself when he joined in in sympathy; if his surgeon’s hands hadn’t lost their touch, he was betting on fractured ribs - and that just for starters.

“If you insist on avoiding the OR, I’ll have to get some supplies. I will be as quick as I can. You stay as still as you can.” 

Klinger nodded his understanding. “Major - the gun, too. Evidence, you know?”

“Consider it done.” As he turned away, he couldn’t help but worry that Klinger might go into shock. He stoked the stove up before he left and piled every blanket he could find on the corporal.

 _What brought this on_? he couldn’t help but wonder. Klinger was legendary in the Korean theater- the man who’d wear anything for a section 8. No one but the most inflexible military types took offense. Without meaning to, he wondered if Klinger could have said something, made a pass. He was human. He surely got lonely. But it didn’t play. 

Dresses aside, he had no evidence that Klinger’s sexuality deviated from any so-called norm. Seeing his hips sway under satin, he’d wondered, of course... What he did have evidence of was the young man’s prudence. He’d worked side by side with him in the OR. He wouldn’t have taken a risk like that, not for a night’s dalliance. 

The possibilities that remained made him furious. Fury gave speed to his feet. It also made him sound so imperious that the on duty nurse didn’t dare question his requisition of a basin, a syringe, bandages, and assorted vials. He would have to square it - somehow - with Colonel Potter, but that was for later. 

For now, he was haunted by repeating fragments of imagery: blood on rayon, Klinger’s fingers dug into the dirt. Holding him up? Trying to push upright? Gripping against pain? How long had those clenched digits been anchored that way? Had he called for help? Most of all, he thought about his eyes. Charles was certain that Klinger’s personnel file listed their color as brown. He snorted in contempt. The army had no imagination. Those eyes were hazlenut cake with black magic icing (black walnuts, Malbec, black cherry cordial and licorice)... or they had been, before tonight. Now they were just black with fear, pupils blown and consuming the tawny irises. 

When he returned, he tried to be grateful those eyes were still focused and free of shock. Klinger flinched when he entered, tried to sit up. Charles motioned him to stay still. “It’s alright, Max. It’s just me.” 

He sat the basin on the stove and filled it with water, letting it heat. As it did, he loaded a syringe with codeine. He could have used morphine, but he needed Klinger coherent to help him through the initial examination. 

“You’re good at that. I hate needles but I didn’t feel it go in,” Klinger said when the needle had expelled its contents. 

Considering how rarely he actually gave an injection, it was a fine compliment. On the other hand, “My guess is that too many other areas are crying out for attention.” He gingerly stroked the skin of his temple. He knew the injury would just match the butt of the rifle. It had been the first blow, the strike to get him off of his feet. Thankfully, there hadn’t been concussive force behind it. Klinger would have a headache, but Charles wasn’t worried for his brain. 

Next, he turned to his face. He dipped a rag in the warm water. The drug was taking effect; Max’s pain-taut frame had lost some of its rigidity. “Close your eyes,” he told the corporal. “There’s no reason you should have to see this.” 

A bit of prodding proved the left cheek bone was bruised rather than broken; he guessed the gash under the eye was from a ring. It didn’t need stitches, but he took care cleaning it out. Tears slipped out from behind long lashes, slid between the surgeon’s fingers. 

He didn’t try to stop them; he didn’t say, “you’re alright now.” He knew it would be a long time before it was true. 

He also knew the ribs were next. The question was: how did he get Klinger out of this couture concoction without doing him further injury? This wasn’t the sort of thing they had taught him at Harvard. Maybe there was a paper in it? 

When he began to work at a system of copper hooks and eyelets, Klinger stiffened again. Charles took his ice cold hand. “Easy, Max.”

It was clear that the wounded man dearly wanted to protest and couldn’t seem to find the words that would stop Charles without giving away what had been done to him. 

Charles lifted his chin, forced him to meet his eyes. “Max, I know.” 

His lashes fluttered; he tried to look away. Charles held fast. “It’s been done to me. It’s practically a sport at boarding schools. So, _I know_. Like you, I know it’s not about sex, but power. Now please let me undo, as much as I am able, what those cretins did to you.” 

A shuddering nod gave him permission. 

The ribs were next. They were also the worst part of it. To his credit, Klinger didn’t scream as he bandaged them but the noises he made sank into the tenderest parts of Winchester like daggers. He tried to distract himself with trivia: how many stab wounds had Caesar received in Shakespeare’s play? How long was Mahler’s third symphony? But he couldn’t hold such things between him and the sheen of sweat on Max’s face, the way he still braced against his touch. 

Charles let Klinger lay back afterward. He was going to need to keep both eyes on those lungs. Pneumonia was a common complication when it came to rib fractures; and that was when the patient hadn’t been lying in a cold puddle for god knows how long. “I know it hurts, but breathe as deeply as you can,” he instructed. 

“Thank you.”

Charles waved him off. “I don’t want your thanks for this. I never wanted to use my skills in this way. Can you go on?” 

“It’s not bad, the rest I mean.” 

“Nice try, _Doctor_ Klinger. I must see. You’ve trusted me up until now.” 

It wasn’t Charles that he didn’t trust. He feared his own abused flesh might betray him. What if he vomited? Passed out? 

“I realize that I appear before you in the absence of my white coat, but I can assure you of my professionalism. I will be quick.” He knelt beside him. “Take a deep breath. Close your eyes. That’s it. Good man.” 

_Tell me what to say to help you_ , he wanted to say as he cleaned cuts, scratches, and abrasions - all below the belt (or belled waist in this case). The blood confirmed his fears but proved superficial. They’d pried him open but had time for little else, it seemed. There were finger marks on his thighs and buttocks but no indication of anything much worse. 

“Something scared them off?” 

“A jeep.” Something between a laugh and a sob escaped his throat. “Rizzo probably passed out in the front seat again, fell against the starter... or someone was coming back really late from a date. Good luck for me either way.”

“Good luck is _not_ being assaulted while on guard duty,” Charles corrected. “Think we can do away with this now and get you comfortable?” He tugged at the gown. 

“Sure.” He tried to help but Charles brushed his hands away and very gently extricated him from the folds of fabric before wrapping him in covers. 

“Are you warm enough?”

“Honestly, Major, I don’t think I’ll ever feel warm again.”

“Fair enough. I want you to stay here tomorrow. I don’t know what story I’ll invent, but you can rest assured that I will divulge nothing without your permission. Now, try to sleep.”

The wide, desperate eyes returned. Charles slowed, stopped. “You don’t want to be alone.” 

“I’m afraid. They could come back.” 

“Then I shall remain.” He arranged the dress over the back of a chair and sat beside the cot. 

Klinger couldn’t seem to quite believe in his continued presence. “Go to sleep, Maxwell,” he said when he caught him staring. “Tomorrow will be a better day.” 

“You going to make that an order, Major? Tomorrow will improve or else?” 

“If it brightens those beautiful eyes of yours even a little, I certainly shall. Now go to sleep.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Though he had discovered and tended Klinger at 2 AM, Charles was up before six. His plan wasn’t perfect, but he thought it would hold water. After assuring himself that his patient was resting comfortably, he took himself to the mess tent to down three cups of black and bitter coffee, one after another. 

Next, he saw to his OR patients. Five minutes before his shift ended, he’d convinced himself that he’d gotten away with it; Potter had accepted the story he’d concocted and all was well. 

Then the Colonel poked his craggy features through the door and crooked a finger. 

Winchester went. 

Standing in his office, the surgeon silently willed himself not to feel like a schoolboy called on the carpet for some bit of tomfoolery. _Harvard_ , he silently reminded himself. _Massachusetts General. Tokyo General. You possess the requisite expertise to bring this off._

Potter held up a heavy piece of cream colored stationary. “Want to give me the real story behind this note of yours, Winchester?” 

He sniffed, striving for an air of dignified unconcern. “There is no story, Colonel.”

“Pig puddles!” The colonel’s aberrant addiction to alliteration made a predictable appearance; Charles raised a brow. “Tell me just exactly why you felt it necessary to deep six my company clerk _in the middle of the night_ without my sayso!” 

Charles gave a dramatic, weary sigh. “As my report explained, I met Corporal Klinger on my way to the latrine.”

Potter still looked angry and suspicious, but he was listening. 

“The corporal was obviously unwell. I could feel the heat coming off of him and he had sweated quite through his dress shields. I assisted him back to his tent where an examination revealed the tell-tale signs of typhus.” He had practiced long and hard to sound unpracticed when saying those words; let no one say _sprezzatura_ was gone entire from the western world! 

“Alright, Major. Let’s pretend I buy this whole poke full of pigs,” said the Colonel. “Typhus tends to rear its beady-eyed beak in OR when men come in from the field. How do you suppose my clerk, who spends his days tip-tapping through reports, came down with typhus when the entire rest of the camp is not just fit as a fiddle, _but as a whole damn orchestra_?” 

In the moment between Potter’s tirade and his own answer, Winchester blessed every single frill and flounce in Klinger’s tent. “Last week, the corporal went to Inchon to replenish his sewing stock. I can only surmise that his purchases included a contaminated bolt of cloth. Thus, the quarantine.”

“The suspect cloth went into his camp stove, correct?” 

“Of course. The Klinger Collection is currently quite bereft of aubergine.” 

Potter tried to stare him down; it felt a little like having a surgical scalpel dangled just above his eyes. He held the course. 

“You know, this surprises me. You stepping up to be Klinger’s personal physician.” 

“It was happenstance that led me to discover and diagnose the corporal. Hunnicutt or Pierce would have acted the same.” 

“Sure, sure. But I always got the feeling you didn’t care for our resident fine-feathered cuckoo bird.”

“Nonsense. Several times I have asked the corporal’s advice when shopping for my sister. Of course, I do tend to buy the things he _doesn’t_ pick. You must understand, Max has a somewhat darker coloring than Honoria.” 

“Max, is it? You do surprise me, Winchester. And I can’t prove you’re lying. I don’t know what Klinger’s gotten himself into, but I know you’re a man of honor and wouldn’t get drawn into any shenanigans. Get him well and back to his post. No one else understands the damn phones and I’m bloody allergic to papercuts!” 


	3. Chapter 3

Though he didn’t know it, the lie Charles told contained a truth. On waking, Klinger looked across the tent and saw the dress Charles had arranged with care, despite having been sorely tempted to slice it off with a pocket knife.

The course of action he took thereafter _felt_ necessary, cathartic. Ribs creaking like branches in a storm, the corporal got to feet accustomed to heels and made a stop-and-start, swaying journey across the tent. The chair caught him and as he slid down it, fists closing in fabric. It was a struggle, but he wrestled the dress across the floor, opened the stove door and shoved it inside. Sparks spit as the fabric blazed up. The heels, still muddied, followed, as did the underthings and even the costume jewelry with which he had accessorized. Task completed, he sank down in the glow of the stove, strangely satisfied. 

Charles found him there that evening. He was gowned and gloved in order to reinforce the typhus story and he bore a box that had to be hastily set aside as he knelt to see to Klinger. 

“Hiya, Major.” 

Charles pushed his mask down and goggled. “What are you doing, man?” 

Klinger explained his mission and the ensuing difficulties he’d experienced when trying to return to his cot. Charles understood but shook his head. “I would have undertaken to help you if you had but waited. Here.” He indicated that Klinger should grab onto him. “This seems to be our destined form of meeting as late, my bird-boned friend.” 

When he laid the corporal back on the cot, he applied his stethoscope to his chest. The lungs sounded clear. What concerned him now was Klinger’s very evident unease; he bore his touch but showed every indication of wanting to escape from it. Charles thought he knew the problem; Klinger’s mind knew that he wouldn’t hurt him, but his touch was part of that night, nonetheless. His body knew only that it had been hurt and was looking for ways to avoid repeating the experience. If he let it go, he feared Klinger would “avoid” himself right into solitude. 

Unfortunately, he wasn’t a psychiatrist. The best Charles could do for the moment was to attempt to create an atmosphere of safety (in the midst of a war zone, no less!) and to keep an eye on the physical aspects. Wishing he could do more, he turned to the box he had brought with him. 

“What’s this?” Klinger asked as he created a buffet. 

“Actual food. I realize your time in the mess tent may have obscured all memories of it.”

“Where did it come from?” 

“Boston. My family sends a few creature comforts _.” Especially if my recorded letters are especially adamant about this purgatory_ , he mentally added. 

Although the peaches in vanilla syrup had caught his attention, Klinger shook his head. “I can’t eat your food, Major. I’m already putting you out, having you look after me this way. And having to deal with the Colonel...” 

“Firstly, Klinger, I am a doctor. I took an oath to see to broken bodies. What would you have had me do? Step over you and go back to bed? I realize I lack Pierce’s reputation for cuddliness, but I am not a monster. So, we will have no more about caring for you - understood?” 

“Got it, Major.” 

“Second, you are not to worry about the Colonel or the camp or your duties as clerk. It’s handled until such time as you can draw an easy breath.”

“You’re not even going to tell me what scam you pulled?” 

Charles strove to look offended. “As if I would presume to compete with you. As far as the camp knows you have typhus.”

Klinger’s forehead scrunched as he thought about it. “From fleas?” he guessed. “Something in the clothes!” 

Charles snapped him a teasing little salute as confirmation. 

“Nice work, Major. It’ll keep Hawkeye and BJ out, too. They won’t want to chance taking it into the OR.” 

“Right.” He gestured at the spread. “Now, to return to the matter at hand, I know you’re devoted to keeping your girlish figure, Max. However, I have now lifted you twice. If it a third occasion to do so arises, I can probably manage with one hand. So please eat something. You’re too thin.”

The combination of a Boston Brahmin accent and a perfect underlying gentleness kept Klinger from arguing. And the peaches really were delicious. 


	4. Chapter 4

Two days later, Klinger had improved considerably and Potter tapped Winchester for a conference in Tokyo to learn and bring back new techniques in the repair of primary damaged blood vessels in the extremities. 

Since he had reported improvement in the corporal’s condition, Winchester could not now use him as a way out. Neither was he willing to leave Klinger without resources... which meant convincing the corporal to allow him to expand their circle of confidants. 

“As I can see it, Max,” he broke the news, “we have these options. We can inform the Colonel of your actual condition. He will likely send Pierce in my place and I will remain nearby.” He saw from Klinger’s face this was a no-go. “We can tell Pierce and Hunnicutt as much as you can handle and they can keep an eye on you.” He came closer and knelt at the side of the cot. “Or we can stay quite mum and I spend my entire brief stay in civilization quite unable to sleep.” 

Klinger’s brow furrowed. “Unable to sleep? Why, Major?” 

“Because I will be _worried_ about you.” He clutched at the blankets, working them in frustration. “Maxwell, I will be sleeping on a real mattress with real sheets. Would you deprive me of the rest such luxuries will certainly convey?” 

Klinger hung his head. Charles had done so much for him; how could he refuse? “Alright, Major. You can tell Hawkeye.”

“Only that you were attacked,” Winchester was quick to say. “He doesn’t need to know their darker intentions.” 

Klinger looked skeptical. “Hawk’s pretty good at seeing through things, Major. You think he’ll buy that?” 

Winchester summoned up all of his dignity and bearing. “I will see to it. You have my word.” 

Max grinned at that; rumor had it that the word of a Winchester was something one could take to the bank - in London, New York, Boston, or Tokyo. “You’re something else, you know that, Major?” 

“From our Resident Something Else,” he made the capital letters audible, “I shall take that as high praise. Now, I will go to Pierce, report back to you, and leave for Tokyo. “

“Thanks. Thanks for everything, Major.” 

Charles carried that thanks with him, a warm coal glowing in his breast, back to the Swamp, where he sought to discharge his unwanted duty. 

He intended to do no more than he had told Klinger, but upon seeing his tentmates a resolve to do more sprang up in him and words he had not intended to speak fell from his lips. He told the entire sordid affair, ending with, “I have never asked the two of you for anything. But I find I cannot rest if this act is unpunished. If you will put your finely honed love of justice to work for me, I will be personally indebted to you. And a Winchester always pays his debts.”

When he finished speaking, they looked horrified.

“Wait a minute.” This was Hawk. “You’re saying three guys - our guys, Americans - did this?” 

Winchester nodded. 

BJ waved his best friend off. “Forget them. What about Klinger? We should look at him.” 

Charles held up a hand. “Gentlemen, I am the best thoracic surgeon in this theater. I assure you that Corporal Klinger’s broken ribs and bruises were not beyond my skill. He’s mending well.”

Hunnicutt looked miffed; he’d thought Charles too big for his britches since his arrival. His decision to play the hero in this situation only confirmed his opinion. “In body, sure. But we’re talking trauma, Charles.” 

“As I said, I have been treating the Corporal in his tent to keep things under wraps. I have already been in communication with Dr. Friedman. I am only telling the two of you anything at all because I am incapable of seeking revenge on my own and because Max should not have to face his assailants ever again, not even to see them sent to military prison. And most of all because the colonel is sending me to Tokyo for a few days. I need the two of you to look after him in my absence... and to keep quite mum about what I’ve told you, including the revenge bit.” He rubbed at a face that had grown increasingly exhausted as he spoke. “I told Maxwell that I would keep his confidence. I intended to. I fear I have spoken not on his behalf but on my own.” 

Now Hunnicutt looked like he’d taken a head blow — and a worse one than the one that had downed Klinger. “Hold on a minute. You’re saying _you_ want revenge because some guys passing through camp assaulted Klinger? You don’t even _like_ Klinger!” 

Hawkeye was watching Charles’ face hard; whatever he saw made him step in and lower BJ’s raised, accusing hand. “Ease up, Beej. Like the man said, he doesn’t ask us for much. And if you won’t do it for Chuckles, here, do it for Klinger. Say yes, BJ.” 

The surgeon’s muscles were still tight with outrage and mistrust, but the depth of his friendship with Hawk superseded both. “Fine. We’ll take care of Klinger while you’re gone.” 

“And we’ll take care of the guys who roughed him up,” Hawk added. “Provided we can find out who the hell they are.” 

Charles dipped his head in a gesture of respect and shook his hand. Hunnicutt offered his only after a noticeable delay, but it came. 


	5. Chapter 5

“You don’t even like Klinger,” Hunnicutt had said, echoing Potter’s belief that he “didn’t care for” the man. The words stayed with him as he attended lectures and demonstrations. As did the encounter he’d had with Hawkeye just prior to leaving the camp. 

“I know how frantic I would feel if something happened to BJ, Charles. Don’t worry.”

It had taken him quite aback, left him trying to stutter an excuse. 

“I saw,” Hawkeye overrode him. “Does he know?” 

“He does not.” 

“And did this happy occurrence begin before the attack?”

“No. That is, not that I am aware of.” 

Hawkeye had surprised him by clapping him on the shoulder. “Well good for you, Charles!”

“I don’t understand.” 

“Something good might come out of this!” He had half-shouted, capering with his usual exuberance. “We _need_ something good in this cess pit. Klinger will make a _very_ lovely bride.” 

Seeing that Charles had endured all he could, Pierce simmered back down. “Seriously, Charles, I’m happy for you. Both of you.” 

Winchester still didn’t know what to make of it; Hawkeye had meant it; hell, he would probably stand happily in the front row to catch the bouquet! 

At the least, Hawkeye’s acceptance freed him from some of his worry. Klinger would be all right under his care. Friedman would come when his work permitted (he would come under the guise of a conference [read poker game] if it did not) and he would ensure that Klinger’s mind remained as sound as the rest of him. 

That was what should have happened. 

However, when the jeep bearing Charles back to the 4077th came to a stop in the churned dirt outside the mess tent, BJ was there to meet him.

“You’re not gonna like this,” said the captain. 


	6. Chapter 6

He was very right. 

Klinger’s unconscious form rested beneath an oxygen tent. His dark skin had a strange bluish cast, a bruised color. Hawkeye had been acting as attending physician; seeing Klinger hurt and sick had pained him, but seeing Charles’ face crumple at the sight of Klinger in that hospital bed nearly cut him off at the knees. He gently pulled Winchester away. 

“What happened?” 

They were in a small conference room set off from the OR. Pierce knew the camp would be buzzing already - why was Charles so upset, etc.? - but he wouldn’t be the one to let them in on Winchester’s feelings. He put a drink in Charles’ cold hands and made them close around it. 

“Steady, Charles. He’s going to be okay.” 

Winchester turned something over and over in the fingers of one hand; it flashed when the light found it. “He was doing so well... why didn’t you call?” 

“It happened too fast. You were already on the road. Don’t worry, though, really. I’ve never had so much consult help in my life. Potter and BJ have both been on this one.”

“But the tent...”

“Precautionary. You’d have ordered the same thing. His file lists a number of pneumonias in childhood and adolescence.”

“I didn’t know, perhaps if I had read...”

“You had more pressing concerns. You weren’t just patching up his body, Charles. You had to protect his privacy, make sure he didn’t go shocky on you, and find Sidney. He’s been here, by the way, before all this took a turn. He gave him a clean bill of mental health.”

Charles would call Sidney later to get it straight from the horse’s mouth. For now, he just seemed shattered. At last, he held up the bit of metal. “I got him a pin. In Tokyo.”

The beaten metal was shaped into flowers with pearl centers. Pierce took him by the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get you settled back in and then you can consult too.” 

When Charles finally slept, it was not in the Swamp. Pierce left him in a chair at Klinger’s bedside. From there, he went to the office to place a call. 

He told the operator to let it ring; the person he was seeking to reach was not only halfway around the world, but hard of hearing. However she knew plants better, he reckoned, than anyone else in Maine, including those who ran the agricultural college. She had been the one to tell him once that flowers had a language; you could make a bouquet say just about anything you wanted depending on what you put into it. 

“Mrs. Oulette? This is Benjamin Pierce calling. Doc’s son - right! Yes, I am still in Korea. Yes, ma’am, it is a mighty long way. Mrs. Oulette, I’m calling with a question.” He explained, described, received an answer and hung up without regretting that six percent of this month’s service pay would go long distance charges. Head resting in his hands, he chuckled over his newfound knowledge. Wasn’t love grand? 


	7. Chapter 7

Pierce was head surgeon at the 4077th. Nine times out of ten, his assessments regarding what would happen next with a patient were correct. Klinger did his part to keep his record intact. He emerged from the oxygen tent, healed and grew better, and was eventually cleared to return to his own bed. On the day he was ready to leave the hospital (he much preferred working in it rather than being one of its inmates), Hawkeye pinned something to his shirt.

“What’s this, Hawk?”

“Charles got it for you in Tokyo. Ask him what it means.” 

Klinger didn’t have a chance to ask his rescuer much of anything in the days ahead. Charles had been a constant presence while he was sick; now, an influx of wounded (there was fighting in the mountain passes again) kept Charles on call and made Klinger beg Hawkeye to pronounce him fit enough to help out. “You guys need me!” he insisted.

“Right,” Hawkeye agreed. “We need you well. If you relapse, there isn’t a bed to put you in. I don’t want to treat you in the dirt outside the compound, Klinger.” _And I really don’t want to see that look on Charles’ face again_ , he thought. “Stay put.” 

So he stayed. And his strength teased him by returning long enough to get him to the latrine before giving out, leaving him wondering how he’d get back. In quiet moments, he touched the flower pin and wondered what it meant. 


	8. Chapter 8

For some time, Charles did nothing but operate and sleep. Hawkeye reported back to him about Klinger, but he felt that he never had the requisite time to really check on him. Finally, the a lull in the fighting was announced - to near hysterical cheers - over the loudspeaker and he went. He was unshaven. He left behind his white coat with its smatters of blood but couldn’t remember when he’d put on the rumpled clothing underneath. 

Klinger looked happy to see him regardless of the circles under his eyes. 

“You look much better, Max. I’m so sorry for what happened while I was away.”

“Major! It would have happened if you were here, too. Besides, Hawk said you kept an eye on me when you got back. Thanks.”

Charles frantically waved off his gratitude. “I did nothing but stay nearby.”

“You look dead on your feet. Why don’t you sit down?”

“No, no. I can’t stay. I just wanted to check in. It’s been mad out there, as you’ve surely heard.”

“Well don’t go just yet. Tell me about this, at least.” He gestured to the pin he hadn’t taken off since receiving it. 

“Where did you get that?”

“Hawkeye. But he said it was from you. He told me to ask you what it means.”

Winchester wondered what Pierce knew. Staring as though entranced, he came close enough to stroke the gilt petals. “Gladiolus. For bravery. I-I knew an official army commendation would not be forthcoming, but I find you very brave.” _I find you many things._ Clearing the emotion from his throat, he squeezed his shoulder and took his leave. 


	9. Chapter 9

When the flood of wounded abated, Charles was able to rest and to check in with his tentmates regarding the task he’d set them. As he’d predicted, Pierce had riddled out who the attackers must have been - a supply sergeant and two corpsmen sent down by the 2174th - and had determined when they would pass down the road past the 4077th again. 

Charles eyes had a light in them that BJ had never seen before, a volatile eagerness. “You’ve developed a plan?” 

“We have,” BJ assured him. He was studying the man. Hawk had told him what he suspected, but it was hard for him to wrap his head around it. Charles? In love with Klinger? Fiction had never produced a stranger couple. 

“You’re sure you want to go through with this, Chaz?” 

Hawkeye shot him a dark look. Charles’ feelings were new; they didn’t need put to the test. 

“Yes. How can I help?” 

“We’ve got it,” Hawk assured him. He explained the plan. As he talked, he swore he could actually see Charles taking heart. When the surgeon from Boston had gone, he turned to BJ and held out a hand. “Told you so. Pay up.” 

***

Three weeks later, Stars and Stripes reported the arrest and subsequent conviction of a supply sergeant and two corpsmen. They had been stopped at an MP checkpoint where it was discovered that their jeep was full of stolen medications intended for sale on the black market and/or private use. All three men received time at Leavenworth. 


	10. Chapter 10

“Dr. Friedman? Dr. Friedman? Can you hear me?” 

“Loud and clear, Major.” 

“Good.” He was genuinely grateful. “I had to place the call myself. The phones are Klinger’s domain and I had no wish to be overheard.” 

“Speaking of hearing, Major, I have it from a couple of captains that I’ve got you to thank for the inevitable section 8 schemes that will be coming my way courtesy of one Corporal Klinger.” 

There was a long moment of silence.

“Major Winchester? Are you there? Can you hear me?” 

“Yes. Yes I am here. I, ah, that is... you’re saying the Corporal will mend?”

Sidney heard the plea in his voice and knew Hawk had been right. “Klinger’s going to be just fine. You did everything right, Major.”

Hot tears threatened. _You did everything right_. Magical words. Words he’d tried to earn from his family by being the perfect son (hadn’t worked), words he hoped he could apply to his work... though that often proved impossible in this abatoir they called an operating theater. Time was too often against them. Everything right became “the best you could,” or, worse, “all you had time for.” These were not conditions under which he was prepared to easily exist. 

“Major? Our connection isn’t holding. I keep losing you.”

“I’m here. I’m here.” _Here in this living hell where young men die badly and good men get attacked._ “Major, what about sending him home?” 

“The way this thing is stretching out, they’d keep him even if he had worse wounds. You could try to plead trauma - I could dummy something up - but I doubt we’d get it past the psych review board in Seoul. And it would mean additional examinations - medical and psychological - for Klinger.”

Charles cursed.

“I know, Major. The worst part is that if they’d done worse, it’d be easier. But since Klinger wears a dress, the army’ll look at it like a couple of soldiers having too much to drink and letting off steam, using the company freak as a punching bag.”

“I beg your pardon,”

“Take it easy, Major. _I_ don’t think anything of the kind. I’m just giving you a taste of how it’s likely to go. Klinger’s earning his service points. He’ll make it out. The important thing is that he’ll still be himself in body and in mind when he does.”

“You’re quite sure? There’s no risk of...” He couldn’t even make himself say it. 

“Suicide? No. I’m not saying there won’t be any after effects at all. He’ll probably have nightmares. He might become withdrawn for a time. The mind has a healing process same as the body, though, and that’s a part of it. How about this, though? To make you feel better, I’ll send you my report.”

“Won’t that be a violation of the Corporal’s privacy?”

As a good psychiatrist, Sidney often answered questions with questions of his own. “Major, is there any earthly chance you’d use anything in that file to increase the Corporal’s suffering?”

“Of course not!”

“Then I think we can risk it.” His voice smiled. “Keep taking good care of him, doctor. Oh, and save a little care for yourself. You’ve been through something of a meat grinder yourself these past few days.” 

Charles thanked him and replaced the phone. He sat in the office for a long time after, letting emotions move over his mind like clouds. He was beyond grateful for Sidney’s words, but he was also saddened by them. Klinger ought to be released from this awful place; he’d served well, he’d been wounded (by men wearing the same uniform, no less!) - no more should be asked of him.

Sighing for the bitter unfairness of the world, Charles went back to the Swamp. 


	11. Chapter 11

A week later, it was in the Swamp that Klinger found him. He rarely had the tent to himself, but BJ was in surgery (helping villagers this time instead of soldiers) and Hawkeye was en route to to the 8063rd to engage in some horse trading. Winchester hoped he’d be able to scare up some new albums or new books, but he wasn’t holding his breath. 

“Major?”

“Max! It’s good to see you up and about.” He looked him over. “And back in fine style, too.” 

Klinger was dressed in a simple sheath. The pin Charles had given him shined from a mulberry scarf. “I finally feel mostly like myself again. Thanks to you.”

Winchester was looking at him with that wide-eyed, unprotected way he had in his more earnest moments. “Thanks are not required. I was merely doing my job. I sincerely wish I had not been needed.”

Klinger took a step closer. He held out the edge of the scarf. “This wasn’t part of your job. Sitting up nights with me wasn’t, either. Neither was protecting my privacy, or feeding me your food. I think you have to let me be grateful for those parts, at least.” 

“You’re welcome.” His voice was very soft. “But you have to know it was my pleasure. I am very fond of you, Max.” 

Klinger searched his eyes. “Maybe I don’t understand, Major. If you mean what I think you do when you say that, why on Earth do you look so sad?” 

Charles’ fingers balled up atop his thighs. He gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “It’s not sorrow so much as regret. I believe that you have come here to say something I very much want to hear... but I’m afraid that I must refuse.” 

“What? Why?” 

“Because you’re mixed up, Maxwell. You’re confusing compassion with passion!” 

“So, you’re saying you don’t feel anything for me?” 

“Quite the contrary. I feel too much. More than I ever dreamed I could. And that is the only reason I can tell you no. I care about you too much to tie you to me with bonds you will come to resent.”

Klinger absentmindedly stroked the pin as he looked on him. “Major, I know I got thwacked on the head a few weeks ago, so maybe that’s why you aren’t making any sense. Can you try it again, please? In plain language?” 

Charles sighed. “I don’t know exactly how or exactly when you moved into my heart. It is enough to look and find you there.”

“You care about me,” Klinger translated. “I already knew that part.” 

“Klinger, there is a psycho-medical term called transference. Patients who experience it see their doctors as rescuers because they help them heal from cancer or some trauma. Sometimes, those patients fall in love with their caretaker.”

“And you think it’s this transfer thing that’s got me here tonight?” 

He’d been suffering before; at that question, he passed over into perfect misery. “Yes.”

“Major, you’re a treat. You get me through an attack and an illness and just when it’s looking like sunshine and daisies, you order up a storm out of a medical textbook!”

He cracked a grudging smile at that. “I take it that you disagree with my diagnosis?”

“Yes! I’ve been hot for you since the day you got transferred here. This might be new ground for you, but I’m used to falling asleep thinking about what it would be like to be held by you. I didn’t come here because you took care of me.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Klinger agreed, smiling. “Also, sir, you’ve been kinder to me in the last few weeks than anybody else has in my whole life. If you didn’t want me to notice that it wasn’t just compassion, you shouldn’t have been quite so wonderful. Now, would you like me to find the other surgeons for a second, third, and fourth opinion, or do you think we can just enjoy the night by ourselves?” 

Winchester was still off balance. “How did you know about my feelings?”

“Remember that first night?”

“Of course.”

“You told me my eyes were beautiful.”

“Ah. Well, it seems I tipped my hand, but I told the truth in doing so.” His fear had been real; it was hard to dismiss it entirely, immediately, despite the light in Klinger’s eyes. “You’re sure that this is not some sort of misplaced gratitude?” _Some terrible debt?_

“Come to my tent and I’ll show you. You can make up your own mind about what it is.”

_And I’ll bet you’ll see real fast that I’m a lot more than grateful!_

Charles didn’t even try to suppress the soft sound of pure want that rose to his lips. Klinger smiled and shook his head. “You shouldn’t have been so hard on yourself, Major. I’ve been yours for the asking all along.” 


	12. Chapter 12

They were a little shy as they walked together, hesitant to strain their newfound bond. Once they were back inside, however, Klinger beamed. “I’ve imagined this so many times,” he confided. “Always figured I’d have to trick you into it though.” 

It made the physician laugh. “If I had known, I would have most happily permitted myself to be tricked.” 

Klinger liked the look and light of his eyes, but something in them said that Charles didn’t really believe, not yet, that the Corporal’s feelings predated their unfortunate late night encounter. As if reading his thoughts, Winchester looked around and spoke without quite meaning to. “You’ve thought of us here? You really...” On feeling himself come near to being explicit, he blushed, trailed off. 

Fortunately, Klinger didn’t have good breeding to make him think better of saying, “You mean, did I come in here after a late shift, lock the door, slip into something pretty and imagine having your hands all over me? Yeah, Major. I’ve definitely done that dance before. A lot.” Then he really bedazzled the man. “Want to see?” 

Charles gave a rapid little nod. “Please.” 

He sounded so pretty saying that one little word that part of Klinger’s mind got busy thinking up ways to make him say it again... and again. But he set out to answer the current “please,” first, locking the door as he had on those nights when Charles was just a collection of images in his mind and a name hidden in his mouth to be spoken or moaned or cried out - if at all - into a lumpy and uncomfortable army-issue pillow.

Taking the real live Charles by the hand, Klinger led him to the tent’s only chair, which he efficiently divested of the costumes it held by dumping them to the floor. Feet surrounded by ribbons and lace, Charles sat. Keeping his eyes locked on Charles’, Klinger lay down on the bed. 

He’d never done anything this brazen before - but after hang-gliding in fuzzy slippers and a bathrobe, Klinger wasn’t a stranger to seeking thrills. And as he made his own breath hitch by lifting his skirt above his hips for Winchester, Klinger knew in that moment that he wanted to make Charles scream way more than he wanted a section 8... (unless they’d let him take Winchester with him when he went).

Klinger didn’t understand it, but somehow Charles eyes exerted pressure; he felt the weight of that stare in his hands as he pushed his underwear down, as he lifted a hand to his mouth to dampen his fingers. Charles made a hoarse sound when his tongue flicked out and suddenly he was there, offering the use of his mouth in place of Klinger’s hand. 

“Major!”

Charles lifted his head, eyes bright and burning. “My name, Max. Say my name.”

Klinger managed to snag him by the lapels and haul him up. It wasn’t a graceful maneuver by any means, but it served. Faces inches apart, he did as he’d asked, packing former longing and present joy into that single syllable. “Charles.” 

Surely experiencing an orgasm at the sound of one’s name, fully dressed, untouched, lips clean of a kiss, was impossible ... but Winchester still knew he’d have to forbid Klinger from saying his name that way in public; he’d never be able to withstand it. Bearing down, he kissed Klinger as if to take every molecule of the sweetness of him onto his tongue, to savor it like expensive wine, to be lit up with the taste of him. 

Beneath him, Klinger’s clever hands scrabbled after skin. The rest of his body also worked toward skin-to-skin contact almost independently, surging and writhing. He would have been embarrassed to be so eager if it hadn’t felt so good. Well, that, and Charles really seemed to like it. His head was buried in Klinger’s neck and he was babbling something sweet and nonsensical that made Klinger laugh for joy because he understood the sentiment beneath the words, the loneliness being banished as they surged against one another, still mostly clothed. 

Not that both men weren’t eager to remedy that situation. “Max,” Winchester asked breathlessly, “is this dress part of the Klinger collection?”

It took a moment for Klinger to make sense of his words; he’d been busy admiring the softness of his skin. “Off the rack, Major.”

“And are you deeply attached to it?” 

“Nope.” 

Winchester then proceeded to engage in a maneuver straight out of fantasies Klinger never would have admitted to having. Drawing a knife out of his pocket, he slit the dress down the side with surgical precision, then neatly closed and pocketed the blade. Panting and wide-eyed, Klinger gaped up at him. 

Winchester shook a finger at him. “Do _not_ tell Pierce.” 

Klinger shook his head weakly. That - and a little bit of moaning - was all he was capable of for the next few moments. When he could speak again, he was struggling with Charles’ clothing. “Join me here, huh, Major?” 

It was slower work than he’d done with the knife, but not by much. Klinger sighed at the feel of him - warm, real. 

Charles kissed the spot behind his ear. “I’ll never hurt you. And neither will anyone else, ever again.” 

This promise of safety was what Klinger had been looking for, longing for, since being sent to Korea. He answered it with everything he was. Charles seemed surprised to feel the tables turn, but he didn’t have it in him to resist that touch. 

“You’ve been taking care of me for weeks,” Klinger reminded him. Seeing something in Winchester’s matchless eyes, he continued, “I’m not talking repayment, Major. I’ve been going crazy wanting to touch you since you got transferred. Come on, do you really want to say no?” 

He didn’t. 

But as Klinger expertly stroked him toward the edge, he said plenty of other things. Klinger especially liked the different English he put on his name, the way “Maxwell” became a drawn out “Max!” (the latter had more syllables), the way “Max” was replaced with a groan. _So much for staid and buttoned up_! he thought.

If asked (preferably at a time when his thoughts were easier to organize and his concentration wasn’t narrowed to the fingers wrapped around him and moving almost fast enough to blur) Charles would have maintained that it was difficult to resist a Lebanese lover who was cheering him on like a baseball game that he’d bet his last five bucks on. When his breath hitched just prior to crying out, he wasn’t sure if he was reaching for the end for his own pleasure or because it would make Klinger happy! 

When he opened his eyes again, Klinger _was_ smiling. “Wow!” 

“I take that to mean that I have lived up to your imaginings?” 

He chuckled; Charles was out of breath and it changed the meaning underneath his words. “Are you seriously asking me if you did okay? You’re...” He shook his head. “I don’t know the words good enough for you.” 

As Klinger had longed for safety, Winchester craved acceptance. To be granted it, to be welcomed so emphatically into another life... it dumbfounded him. _I-I don’t know how you can mean that... can feel it_ , he thought. What he said was, “Max...” in a come-here tone that spoke to everything Klinger was. 

The rest was easy. 

Winchester had expected himself to stumble, to hesitate. But Klinger was attuned to him in a way no past lover had ever been. Max didn’t need to coach the wondering Charles with his voice because his body lit up under his touch, rose to meet him, said a thousand wordless “yeses” in answer to a thousand exploratory caresses. When he had him in the palm of his hand, poised to climax, Winchester found himself holding back, not wanting it to end, wanting to watch him forever. But Klinger’s too-dark eyes held his, begged. 

“Please. Please, Charles...”

He had to answer. 

And as Klinger thoroughly lost himself all Charles could think was _Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine._

They traded soft kisses, after, tangled in one another. Klinger’s hands moved over Charles’ ribs, reveling in the softness. “So, whaddaya say, Major? Debts cancelled?” 

Winchester knew he was being gently called out, being reminded that he’d been foolish to imagine that obligation alone could have won him those head-thrown-back, full-throated cries. His voice was musically fond but a little devious when he said, “Oh, I don’t know, Maxwell... there is the little matter of interest...”

End! 


End file.
